


the fury of your bones

by clytemnestras



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Codependency, F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest, Multi, Power Play, Season/Series 12, Sharing a Bed, Smoking, y'know bad people with fucked up dynamics and priorities... the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 04:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10072526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/pseuds/clytemnestras
Summary: I am a cathedral of almost-lovers





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Santsi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santsi/gifts).



> a gift because I kept reneging on promises to write more sunny / season 12 is really getting to me and there's an almost-trend of the siblings become more alike one another which refused to leave me alone

She manages to hide things rather well for months, wiping her eyes frantically in the bathroom each night or saving it up for when she’s ducked out behind the bar smoking until her lungs hurt from more than the cold air. Mostly, she cries out her fears and frustrations alone and touches up her concealer until she’s nothing but dewy skin and too-dark eyeliner. 

 

Except she comes home one night on the knife’s edge of her own feelings and she is one stray word from disintegrating and all the work just crumbles. She scrubs off her makeup and crawls into bed still in her clothes, not caring about the others waiting to curl around her at the greatest distance they can manage. She starts crying then, knowing she’s opened up her thick skin for their sharpest words, sobbing quietly into her pillow until Mac crawls in beside her and mumbles out a tired  _ please shut up.  _ After that she sinks into silence, almost glad for the lack of barbs.

 

By the time Dennis slides in the tears have mostly stopped and she's beginning to drift when he curls his arms around her, leaning in very close. “You okay, Sweet Dee?”

 

She shakes her head and burrows closer like they might be kids again hiding from their parent’s drunken wrath on a bad night and scrambling for affection like they’d seen on TV. 

 

“Sh,” he says, rubbing her back softly. He breathes in and out slowly and evenly so she begins to mirror it, all of him emanating calm. “It’s okay, you feel better now?”

 

She sniffs, mumbles, “A little,” and shudders at the difference in temperature as he extricates her from his arms. 

 

“That’s good, that’s good.” He brushes himself down and strokes her hair. “And hey, how about next time you decide to cry for three hours in a bed you share with other people you wipe your tears on a tissue and  _ not my goddamn pillow _ .”

 

“What?” 

 

Dennis flips the pillow over and turns his back to her, curling up into a ball that mirrors her own. “Just some friendly advice, sis. Don’t mention it.”

 

That night she doesn’t sleep, feeling raw and pissed and cold all over, Mac snoring softly in her ear. She can't pretend a part of her wasn't hungry for a little focus.

 

*

 

She's home on a Saturday night, the bar long closed because they were all too tired and too uncaring to bother staying open. Her date cancelled and she doesn't care because he had a worse job than her and she doesn't have the money in her account to spring for his drinks too, but she’d kill for something close to attention (affection) right now when she's sick to death of her own damn hands and the smell of her deodorant.

 

Against his better wishes (and acting as though it's a choice), Dennis is right beside her, looking at her and not the TV screen.

 

“Dee, let me give you some advice.” 

 

He says that goddamn word  _ again _ and she has her fingernails pressing deep into the fleshy part of her hand where her fist is clenched and the dark inner voice like a vengeful Goddess is yelling  _ I know what I’m doing, back the fuck off. _

 

The look in her eyes doesn’t scare him off. Dennis slides up closer to her on the couch and swirls the whiskey around his glass. She can feel his breath on her neck and can't tell if it's deliberate or happenstance.

 

“If you want to get a guy to stay with you, and god knows you need it -”

 

“And what about you, huh?” Her heartbeat picks right up and she's sure he must hear it from how close they are, or see the pulse jump at her throat. She refuses to watch his gaze stray. “You don't have anyone stuck with you except your little gay puppydog, why is that?”

 

He laughs too loudly for the small space, eyes slightly wild. “I'm a lone wolf, Deandra, it would be cruel to let any woman tie me down.”

 

“Oh is that it, is that it, really? Please. You strike out more than I do little man. You just don't like to admit it.” She's itching inside. The apartment is too small for their heightened feelings and she wants a fucking cigarette so her hands will at least have something to shake around, but she can't leave him here when the argument is quivering towards a plateau.

 

“So what, you win by gloating about being a whore? Interesting tactic Dee, really, I applaud you.”

 

He is right up in her face now, the glass of whiskey between them, and she tilts her head to take a sip.

 

Dennis’ eyes narrow, still locked onto hers as a slow smile spreads across his mouth. “You wanna take a bet on who can keep a partner the longest?”

 

She sits up, forcing him to lean back so their eyes stay level. “What would I win?”

 

“Anything you want,” he says it slow, low, the dare of it just dripping from his voice.

 

She smiles back. “Hey Dennis, I know you think sucking Ryan Phillipe’s dick would be just like tasting your own but other movies have been made since  _ Cruel Intentions. _ ” She drains the whiskey and hands him the cup. “Good night, asshole.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

When he crawls into bed a few minutes later she doesn't comment, but he places his head beside hers on the pillow and whispers, “You don't have to pretend you could beat me if you never try.”

 

*

 

Dennis’ voice keeps ringing through her ears and she is drunk and surrounded by his once-frat brothers who keep looking at her from the corner of their eyes - they are delicate and unsure, and she feels anything but. Dennis is hiding in the back somewhere - probably huddled with Mac, hungry to relive some former glory that is not unfurling like he wanted it to and she is just surrounded, pressed in on every side by  _ drunk guy _ , alone in a crowd. 

 

She leans in close to the one on her left, his name lost between her brain and mouth so she kisses his cheek instead. “Hey,” she says, leaning all along his body feeling so warm and so i _ n control _ . “You wanna get out of here?”

 

The guy is drunk off his ass, head resting on her shoulder but he grins at her and settles his hand on her lap, fingertips drawing patterns higher and higher along her thigh.  

 

“Good, that’s good.” She smiles back and him, runs her teeth along his earlobe, and drops her voice to a whisper. “But you’ve got to do something for me first.”

 

She has her legs up on the booth when Dennis comes back with drinks, and her smile is dark. 

 

“Dee get your gigantic feet off the furniture.” He scoffs once and does a double take, scanning her then the empty space around her. “Where the hell did everyone go?”

 

“On, Dennis. They said that if you were just gonna walk out on your reunion then you weren’t welcome to the next time they all get together. Sucks for you.” She takes one of the beers from Dennis’ hands and drinks, not losing eye contact for a moment. 

 

“You  _ bitch _ , you scared them off, didn’t you, with your disgusting… well, everything.”

 

“We’re alone, jackass, don’t insult me to me to my face.” She takes another sip and stands, beaming.

 

“Hey Dee,” the oversized frat-boy is still slurring slightly but he’s sure on his feet, holding his arm out for her. “You ready?”

 

“Oh, you betcha.” She rams her shoulder into Dennis’ shoulder on her way. “Goodbye, Dennis.”

 

*

 

He keeps pushing, closing the gaps between them as much as he can because there's so little left to take from her or to break off from her spine to keep as a memento. Intimidation is what he has, and it's what he likes best.

 

She knows he forgets sometimes she's seen all of his tricks before.

 

She reschedules the date with the poor guy because she had touched his hand over the cigarette counter and it was big and rough in just the right way that it seems close enough to a reason.

 

She brings him to the bar because she wants to feel big. (Later, she thinks she brought him because sabotage tastes less bitter than rejection and she has never been above falling on her own sword, a hundred games of CharDee MacDennis prove as such.)

 

Dennis’s top lip has curled before they are entirely through the doorway. His boredom and obsession has belonged to her for two weeks now, almost a record for his attention span, and he doesn't look close to tired yet. In a small way, the attention is a balm to the ego that has been untended and starved to the bone. 

 

Her mouth is half open to say  _ hey guys, this is Mike,  _ when Dennis comes out from behind the bar and wraps his arms around both of them, looking Mike appraisingly up and down. 

 

“Now Dee, who is  _ this?  _ You didn’t tell us you’d be bringing a boy-toy along.” The look in his eyes is far too dark for the intonation. He rakes his gaze along Mike’s torso and cuts his eyes at her. “And brought him you have.”

 

She can feel Mike’s discomfort run up her own spine, even before he looks at her, eyes blazing.  “Um, Dee what the hell is going on?” 

 

She’s going to wring Dennis’ neck when this is over. She’s going to dig her fingers into his chest and pull out the little black shard he calls a heart, goddammit. 

 

She smiles. “Nothing, Mike, my brother’s just being a jackass. You wanna go?”

 

Dennis’ hand on her shoulder feels more possessive than it has the right to be, and he runs it teasingly up her and down her arm. He is not looking at her, because that would be wrong, somehow. Mike is. 

 

“ _ This _ is your brother?” His face is drawn in that same way she saw kids in fifth grade do whenever their attention would stray from Dennis to her.

 

(What happened to them after sent Dennis to therapy for three months, and every session he would sit and not say anything, and she would sit beside him, holding his hand.)

 

Dennis’ smile is utterly wicked. “Twin, actually. And it’s true, y’know.” He wraps his fingers around Mike’s throat and she knows this round is unsalvageable. “We share everything.”

 

Mike runs as fast as he can. 

 

Mac laughs for an hour after, with something far away in his eyes she doesn’t care enough about to question. Dennis kisses Dee on the cheek, arm still wrapped around her shoulder, fingers digging in hard. Dee gives Dennis a black eye.

 

What matters in the end is the night never changes; they all curl together in the same bed, quiet and not touching anywhere. She waits until she’s sure Mac is asleep and rolls close to Dennis. And maybe she has always known she was a shadow of his, a particularly dulled bronze mirror, but she isn’t sure he’s noticed until he blinks up at her and sees her smile feral in the dark. 

 

“You’re not the only one who can play dirty.” 

 

He doesn’t say anything, and it tastes decadent like fear to her.

 

*

 

Vengeance is never sweet but the cigarette smoke is, and she knows he was watching when she ducked out from behind the bar, and must have watched Charlie follow.

 

The smoke curls in her lungs, and she passes the cigarette to Charlie with her eyes closed, exhaling slow enough to feel every moment of it.

 

He stands close to her, enough that the smell must be weaving into her clothes and on another day she might have cared, but today she rests her weight on the wall and leans her head on his shoulder, feeling all of his warmth. She is rarely warm.

 

She knows Dennis is behind her, she’s adapted to know since they were young, and she can feel the weight of his gaze on her spine, but it factors less into the move than she would like to pretend. She turns her face into Charlie’s neck, because she is drawn to that warmth like a leech and lets him wrap around her as a reflex. 

 

She watches Dennis over his shoulder, spilling ash down Charlie’s back. She wants the moment to say  _ look, asshole. You think all this is yours, but I could take it if I wanted.  _ But she’s afraid her vulnerabilities overspill, because she’s never been good at hiding from him. 

 

“Hey, Dee,” Charlie whispers into her hair. “You okay?”

 

She has to lean back to see him, to break the look she and Dennis are trading back and forth like dominance. She’s not sure when Charlie stopped being the grotesque and started looking gentle to her. 

 

“Yeah Charlie. I think I am.” She quirks her lip, and it’s not a smile but it blooms like a soft flame in her belly. 

 

“Good,” he says, taking the cigarette from between her fingers. They both reek of smoke, and it covers up the smell of  _ Charlie  _ enough that she stops herself burrowing closer into him. “Because Dennis is making that face again and if you’re not going to keep up I will have to push you outta my way. Dude’s crazy.” 

 

“Don’t even worry about him. He’s nothing.” She’s still leaning against Charlie and she’s afraid that any slight movement will fracture the moment. The cigarette has burned all the way down and it’s easy to trade it’s place between his fingers with her own. “I like these little breaks, y’know. Clears my head.”

 

“Yeah,” Charlie says, “I think I get that.”

 

Dennis is standing in the doorway when they turn back around and she drops Charlie’s hand like it’s on fire, but stays in his space. Dennis hardly moves for them, mouths  _ grow up,  _ and she knows the playing field is too level for him to handle.  

  
“Grow up yourself, dickbag.” She pulls him down by the shirt and kisses his forehead. “Momma’s gonna sleep good tonight.”   


End file.
